#oc agent anderssen

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 17

CW: Deadnaming, implied CSA AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster

She buys three snow cones: cola-flavoured syrup on hers, blue raspberry for Thazar, and cherry for Storri. Elo can't help chuckling at King Storri – this serious, muscular man – gripping the paper cone and tiny plastic spade with intense concentration. They carry them through the halls, drawing peculiar stares, to the Council chambers where Thazar is waiting. "Snow cones?" he asks, eyebrows raised. "Snow cones," Elo confirms with a grin. "We can have dessert before main. I got you blue raspberry, I hope that's okay." She hands him the paper cone, knowing full well it's his favourite. He looks baffled for a moment, before accepting it and giving it a lick. Elo glances at Storri, and they share a secret smile.

Lunch starts out well. It's taken in Thazar's personal office, the three of them around a compact, fold-away table. It's nothing fancy – sandwiches of cold cuts and a bit of charcuterie. But it's happily devoured as Elo passes on Farren's update for the Strucker case, and finally explains what caused her to show up in his office covered with mud and engine grease. King Storri seems concerned that his having kept her out late had contributed, but she assures him no harm was done. In return, Thazar admits no one was expecting his Majesty to show up, but they weren't about to do anything to the gift horse, let alone look in its mouth. He gives her the details of the dinner, the announcements they're due to make during it… and then says she must wear a dress. "No," Elo says. "Though I'm there in an official capacity, his Majesty's safety is still my priority. I'll wear a tuxedo." "That is not good enough. Elowyn, you cannot appear in anything less than a ballgown. I know you dislike it, but there are standards to maintain. Your priority during this meal is to be part of the Icelandic contingent and assure people there is no harm in the deals we'll make over the coming days. You must appear–" "Ladylike? No running, no fighting? And if there is a situation – what then? Do I sit back and let the menfolk deal with it? No. I need to be able to move in my outfit." The glower Thazar is levelling at her is nothing short of furious. It's been a while since they've come to blows like this. "Then find a dress where you can," he growls, and Elo is reminded that under that placid, pale exterior lies a skilled swordsman and ballistics expert. Aunt Selene told stories of his sabre work and trap-making, how he ran cannonade during the Great War and of his kill-count. Aunt Sel chose him for those reasons, Elo recalls, not just for his keen intelligence and political acumen. If anything, her Aunt once said, his skill with the blade and its manoeuvres only enhances his ability to slice verbally through his political opponents. But none of that knowing is able to stop her angry response. "No, Thazar, I need a suit." "Featherdown!" His hand booms on the table. The cutlery jangles. She feels the sabre-jab of her deadname through her heart. Elo goes cold and rigid and silent. Her first parents were, in the nicest possible way, a bit hippy-dippy. Flower-children or not, no one deserved to die like they did. The memory of their deaths and her abuse rings through her bones, as Thazar's voice rings through the air. Her hand clenches around the cheese knife. She wants to rage, wants to remind him with a blade that is not who she is anymore, and that is not her name. In her periphery the King's security has detached from the wall, dampening her ardour. "Might your secretary have a recommendation?" Elo says, voice tight, instead of the million things she wants to scream. The Acting Magister pauses, as if he too is corralling all the things he wants to say, and utters instead, "Yes." Elo rises sharply. The chair thuds as it tips over behind her. "Will your Majesty be requiring anything further?" King Storri's gaze flicks warily between the two of them. "Nay." "Until dinner then, your Majesty. Acting Magister." Elo turns sharply and strides for the door. "May I walk you out?" King Storri asks, even as he's rising to follow. "If your Majesty pleases," Elo bites out over her shoulder, even though it's not fair to treat him with the same cold disdain she threw at Thazar.

Outside in the corridor, as she's marching away, King Storri makes the mistake of trying to catch her arm. "Featherdown?" Her wrist is caught by the security agent, the cheese knife inches from his throat. She'd forgotten she was holding it. "That is not my name," she snaps out. The agent flicks her wrist, forcing her to drop the knife. "He has crossed a line. No one has any right to call me that. No one. I am Detective Sergeant Elowyn of Toreguarde, and you will address me as such!" She wrenches her arm away from the agent, though he rightly remains on alert in front of his King. She hates that she is shaking, that tears are standing in her eyes. Behind his agent, King Storri nods. "Very well, Sargent." Elo swallows and blinks as she looks away. "Ma'am," says the agent. "Our shield maidens favour the cocktail dress. The short skirt allows a better range of movement and access to concealed weapons." Elo steps away, throat working as she swallows. "Thank you, Agent."